


Pissed

by JP (jpgr1963)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Drinking, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Gay Bar, Jealousy, M/M, Strip Tease, mention of non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jpgr1963/pseuds/JP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dark little tale of lust. Hamburg timeframe.</p><p>Disclaimer: This is pure fiction, nothing in this story is real, just all make believe, no intention of libel, no implied ownership, so chillax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Bloody hell!”

Paul cursed as a stream of frothy liquid spilled down his chin and splashed in fat droplets over the surface of his dark t-shirt that was peeping out from beneath his open jacket. With one swipe, he brushed off his wet jaw with the back of his hand and gruffed to no one in particular. He was getting pissed.

Fuck it. He could hold his liquor, or so the gorgeous nit thought, as he polished off another sudsy pint of rich, amber beer. The lad had at least one Irish hollow leg after all, and his Scot blood certainly didn’t hinder his ability to overfill his gullet with booze. The band’s wages on this third Reeperbahn gig were more generous than last year; since they had the rare day off tomorrow, he could afford to relax and go on a bender. “Shit,” he thought to himself, as he plopped the empty glass down on the worn counter of the dark, smoky Hamburg strip club. He’d better be right pissed if he was ever gonna find the sack to do what he been fantasizing about doing for months… for a bleeding year now.

~~~

Ever since he’d spied John and Sutcliffe snogging and groping each other in the back hallway of the Bambi Kino last year, the urge to taste his friend’s mouth, to feel John’s rough hands on his own smooth, pale skin, had been nearly unbearable. For the past year, McCartney had relived the scene he’d accidently witnessed, he replayed the dirty details in his mind, over and over again… usually with his lubed, left hand pumping his own vein in rhythm with the pulsing recollections…

John’s fingers grasping Stu by the hair and overpowering him into submission, his other muscular arm wrapped possessively around the artist’s tiny waist. John shoving his wet tongue down the smaller man’s gurgling throat. Stu moaning and squirming, resisting at first and then finally surrendering to John’s demands and the obvious, illegal pleasure.

Lost for a second in the illicit memory, Paul gazed down the length of the bar before allowing his twitching hand to stroke and readjust his hardening lad package…

John pulling back and smiling wickedly at a panting, flushed Stu, then suddenly dropping down to his knees on the filthy floor, kissing Sutcliffe’s bulging groin through his jeans, running his hands up the insides of Stu’s legs, all the while growling playfully.

Paul shifted his weight to his other leg, as he raked his fingers through his thick, damp hair. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about the queer spectacle of John sucking off that spineless prat?

Stuart tossing his head back against the wall with a groan, as John undid his zipper in one smooth move, gently pulling out Sutcliffe’s aching throbber. Butterfly kisses and teasing licks dancing across the painter’s swollen knob. With another hungry growl, John engulfing the lad’s shaft, sliding it across his tongue and sucking, the slurping noises filling the empty hallway… Stu knotting his fingers in John’s soft hair, begging for release in hushed, affectionate whispers. 

Fuck. Paul wanted that. He wanted John on his knees in front of him, John’s mouth worshipping his purpled prick. His balls ached for it, day and night, alone in his room... and even while banging some nameless bird. Shit, he’d imagine it was John’s soft, talented lips, the teasing brush of John’s aquiline nose, whenever any skirt went down on him. He couldn’t take it anymore. 

Stu was gone now. Dead and buried.

Tonight was the night that Paul would finally take what we wanted, what had always been rightfully his. Seduce John to get down on his fucking knees and suck him off. To have John worship Paul.

~~~

“Give us another beer, luv.” Over the club noise, Paul barked at the blonde barkeep, softening his harsh demand with a slow wink and a flirty smirk. She smiled back coyly, her voluptuous mounds of bosom threatening to burst out of her button-down lilac shirt.

“Fit tits for a titty bar,” Paul hummed to himself, turning back around to look for his mates. As he pulled his pack of smokes from his leather jacket pocket, his droopy, dark eyes scanned the room; the loud, foggy scene wobbled in his brain a tad from the night’s excessive drink. Propped up against the bar to steady his balance, he finally spotted them, sprawled at a round table in the far corner. 

Harrison was near zonked, cradling his burly head in his crossed arms on the wooden table surface. Pete and Klaus were chatting up a giggling stripper, hands gesticulating to emphasize whatever daft, lewd crap they were going on about.

And then he spotted John, slouched in a chair, his sharp features blurred occasionally by clouds of cigarette smoke.

Expressionless behind his thick lenses, his solid arms crossed tightly over his broad, leather-clad chest, John still looked fucking miserable… and a thousand miles away. Still grieving over the dead twat, Paul huffed. His best mate was still bloody depressed and disgusted with everything and everyone. And, to Paul’s surprise, Lennon didn’t seem plastered at all, even from across the dim club. No spastic smile, no waving his arms or cackling or any of the familiar antics or expressions that usually accompanied John’s frequent inebriation. He was just sitting there, still and silent.

“Give us a second pint, darling.” Paul shouted to the bar bird again, as his tossed a handful of coins on the counter. Snaking the long fingers of his left hand through the handles of both overfilled glasses, a lit fag dangling from his full lips, he staggered slowly over towards his mates’ perch.

“Gottcha a bevvy, Johnny.”

Surprised and slightly confused, John snapped out of his distraction and looked up at the swaying vision of Paul in tight black leather. McCartney looked bloody edible, if he hadn’t been so fucking straight, banging snatches left and right… and barely noticing John’s loneliness and needs. Hardly noticing John at all.

“What was that, Paul?” Arms still hugging his torso for self-comfort, Lennon’s hazel brown eyes pierced out and up from underneath his smooth, short bangs.

“A pint, mate. I bought ya… burp… a beer. ‘ere, take it then before I drop it, will ya?”

“Uh, yeah… ta.” 

After plopping his own beer down on the table, suds spilling out into the nearby ashtray, Paul grabbed a chair and spun it around with a twirl, straddling the seat backwards between his slender thighs. His forearm settling on the curved band of the wooden seat back, the heavy-eyed bassist rested his stubbled chin on his jacket-covered right arm. He softened his tired, raspy voice, hoping it sounded sexier that way.

“See anything ya fancy then?”

“Fuckin’ zilch, Macca. These strippers ‘ere are grotty spaniels, the lot of them.” John sighed and swallowed his beer in three quick gulps, slamming the glass down hard on the table. “I’m ‘eaded back to the room… a hard wank and some sleep’s in order, son. Ta for the pint.”

Paul swallowed with effort, desperate to keep his nerves under check. He didn’t want John to leave the club now… not without him. He shifted in his leather trousers and parted his lips in frustration, nibbling on the nail of his left thumb.

“Don’t leave yet, John.” Fuck, that sounded pathetic and needy.

“Why? Ya should be pulling some fanny ‘bout now, right?” John’s eyes narrowed with distrust.

“I’ll go back with ya, Johnny. Just lemme finish me pint and we’ll take off.”

“What’s wrong with you, Paul? Since when have you passed up any chance to fuck an easy skirt?”

“It's just... well, I thought that I'd keep ya company. Ya still miss him, don’t ya?” Paul questioned from underneath his own forelock fringe, his sultry voice marred with a tinge of green jealousy.

John just stared into Paul's eyes, his face frozen in an incredulous expression.

“Stu died less that a month ago, for Christ’s sake! Yeah… I miss him. Why the fuck do you care anyroad? Ya never liked him.”

“But I care for you.” Fuck. Paul rubbed his eyes, trying to recover before John grew more suspicious. “What I mean is… I’m yer best mate, right? I hate to see ya all low and depressed, John. S’not good for yer playin’, s’not good for the band, ya know?”

“Fuck the band. And fuck you, Macca. And ya don’t understand me… ya never have. I’m leavin’. Stay here and bang something.” John ground out his spent smoke and stood up forcefully. Without another word or look back, he strode out of the strip club into the rotting stench of the filthy, dark street.

Frustrated, Paul tried to guzzle down his beer quickly, but soon choked and gagged and gave up. He pushed his lithe frame out of the chair and followed John out into the whore-filled alley, out to fulfill a potentially dangerous fantasy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dark little tale of lust. **This story is complete fiction.**

John marched with purpose down the grotty, Hamburg street, his mind racing but focused. He wasn’t going back to their hovel of a kip; he had decided that before he ever left the strip club. The taste of German beer had whetted his thirst, and Paul’s steamy, sultry eyes had stirred his aching groin. He needed more drink… and some company. Not a huge-titted, daft stripper willing to spread her soft legs for a pint and a giggle. He wanted sweaty, rough lad fucking. He craved cock.

As he got farther away from the club and their lodgings, he swerved off to the left, down a poorly lit alley, and headed towards that district. Their district… to where he and Stu used to slip away unexpectedly during their first Hamburg trip, off to a discreet establishment that was for lads who fancied the same illegal playtimes as them. Where they could be themselves, without worry of scorn… or the law. It was the fucking Reeperbahn, after all. All tastes were accommodated in this lustful playground. John hadn’t been back to that place in ages… but he’d been there often with Stu; they had been well known among the regulars in that sacred, secret refuge. Now he was going back in that pub… alone. Without Stu. And without a snowball’s chance in hell to ever be with the one he truly desired… his best mate, his partner. The guitarist slowed his purposeful steps and sighed, lighting and inhaling on a cigarette.

When John stopped to light a smoke, Paul froze in his tracks, his lungs aching with labored breathing, sneaking a look around the corner of a warehouse building. Where the hell was John going? Paul had never been in this area of the Reeperbahn before. But he’d follow John to the ends of the earth, if need be, to get what he wanted. He just needed to keep moving and not fall the fuck down, flat on his pretty face. He hugged and grabbed at the brick exteriors for support as he swayed and staggered after John down that mysterious street. Fog floating off the waterfront docks was building and rising; they’d be enveloped soon, so Paul sped up as quietly as he could without tripping or losing sight of his mate.

Far from their normal stomping grounds, John turned and stopped at the bottom of a flight of stairs attached to a nondescript two-story building. After a moment’s pause, he raced up the short flight of concrete steps and pulled open the heavy, wooden door decisively. He needed this place, he realized as he exhaled and then quickly inhaled the familiar scents. He stretched his tensed fingers and relaxed.

The clean, well-appointed place was packed, as usual: young and older blokes laughing and drinking and dancing and snogging. Pushing his way through the happy throng, John pulled out a metal and leather stool at one end of the bar, took off his glasses and put them in his jacket pocket, and nodded at the old, ruddy-faced bartender.

“Well, well… s’been a while, darling. Good to see ya back.” The old codger grinned and growled in a husky voice. How a retired, poofter coal miner from the bowels of Wales ended up tending bar in the fucking Reeperbahn, John would never figure out. The bloke was private and all.

“A whiskey straight up, good sir. S’alright then, Mickey?”

“Comin’ right up for you, luv. Yeah, all’s good. Where’s yer lovely sprite of a boyfriend?”

“Broke it off, mate. Left me for a German bird last year.” John exhaled two streams of smoke through his nostrils. “And now he’s dead. Brain clot or something.”

Mickey’s breath hitched as he shot an uncomfortable glance at the leather-jacketed rocker, before he grumbled condolences and hastily returned to wiping off some freshly washed tumbler glasses, his eyes focused on the mundane task. Suddenly, John felt someone close by his side; he gripped his glass tighter in anticipation and turned to investigate. Never did take very long for the younger, fit lads to garner some attention at this club.

“John? It is you, right? Erik. We met last year. How are you? You are here alone?” The handsome, blonde man leaned into John’s left shoulder, shouting his garbled Swedish accent into John’s left sideboard over the drone of the dance music. John actually remembered attractive Erik… ‘Good for a free drink’ Erik the Fair was what Stu had once nicknamed him in jest.

“Not alone anymore, luv… if ya buy me another, that is.” John raised an eyebrow and smirked flirtatiously, as he gulped down the last swig of his liquid fire. He needed distraction from his hollow fantasies, and some bloody release.

…..

Paul moved back and forth on the pavement outside the anonymous building for too long, wringing his hands and rubbing his damp palms against his leather-clad thighs and debating his next pissed move. There were no signs or lights or fucking anything to identify this hidden place. Figuring that John went up to someone’s flat or something, Paul huffed “Bloody hell” in frustration… and then decided to enter the brick structure, wobbling up the wide steps, close to losing his balance a couple of times. A sturdy handrail would have proved useful.

As the door closed behind him with a solid thud, he realized that he was in a bar… a crowded, noisy bar. Barely taking any notice of the mob of patrons, the room spinning from too many pints, Paul’s heavy eyes languidly searched the club in hopes of spotting his auburn-haired bandmate. No luck.

He squished his frame through the crowd, feeling warm bodies rub up against his slender legs and firm back and round arse, until he found himself at the long bar.

“Hello… sir?” Paul hollered to catch the attention of the wrinkled bartender, waving his arm spastically.

“Why hello there, lad. Yer new here, aren’t ya? I would have surely remembered your beautiful face, darling. What can I pour you, luv? On the house.”

“Ta, but I’m looking for me mate. He came in ‘ere earlier… wait, are ya English?” Paul screamed with a slur.

“Pfttt… Welsh. And I’m not deaf, luv. What does yer mate look like?”

“Same height as me, bit broader… reddish hair, leather jacket, white trousers. S’name is John.”

“Ah! So you know John, do ya? He’s here, but he just went off to the loo with a friend.”

“The loo? With a friend, ya said? Uh, right then.” Paul hesitated for a moment, stumbled over himself and then regained his bearings by grabbing onto the edge of the counter. “I’ll go fetch ‘im.”

“Wait! Not so fast there. John and Erik were looking for privacy… ya understand, right? Yer plastered, luv. Have a seat for a spell. What’s yer name, son?” Paul’s droopy eyes suddenly opened wider, filled with ache and anger, as his inebriated brain absorbed and digested the bartender’s words. Shaking his head, Mickey just chuckled… and poured Paul a generous glass of top-shelf whiskey. No sense in letting the gorgeous, leather-clad lad sober up too much, was there?

“He’s fuckin’ another bloke? In the pub loo?” Paul growled silently under his breath, as he choked down a burning swallow of the free booze. He didn’t notice yet, but a crowd was gathering around him, undressing him with their eyes from a close but respectful distance. In this place, young McCartney, with his perfectly carved features and luscious arse, was an Adonis… a coveted prize for the most deserving man. And they all felt bloody fucking deserving at this late hour. 

Then Paul had a wickedly brilliant idea. He forced down another huge gulp of liquor and pushed himself up on his feet.

…..

Pressed up against a paneled wall, John could feel his large, twitching hands all over him, running up and down his back underneath his jacket, John could feel his stiff prick thrusting up hard against his left thigh. As he closed his eyes and leaned back against the wood, he felt his damp lips on his neck, kissing softly… but slimy wet. When Erik cupped his jaw to turn his face in for a snog, he finally put up a firm hand.

“No kissing, right? Suck me off, darling.” John’s silky command filled the space. While the blonde obeyed and ran his mouth down John’s chest, nibbling him through his thin shirt, Lennon realized that the volume of noise in the main room was growing louder by the moment.

“What the fuck is going on out there?” 

 

…..

Paul was up on a table, gyrating his hips slowly while sipping on another free drink, his eyes heavy, his lips moist and pouty. He’d seen enough fucking strip shows during their gigs in Hamburg to know what blokes liked; shit, he was a bloke. He figured all lads pretty much liked the same teasing undress. As he slid his jacket off one shoulder, letting it rest in the crook of his elbow, the audience switched from clapping to cat calling, in a polite queer way.

…..

John felt Erik unzip his trousers and pull him out, already leaking with lust. As the blood raced to his groin and his knees began to tremble slightly, his ears automatically muffled the droning racket coming from the bar. John’s attention was completely directed to his aching throbber, as he felt warm lips wrap around and engulf his swollen head.

…..

A quick glance at the door to the loo… shit, no bloody reaction. As McCartney slipped off the other shoulder and let the jacket drop to the floor, he bent down to holler over the clamor at the men standing below him, closest to the round table stage.

“My name is Paul!”

“Paul! Paul! Paul!”

“What the fuck?” John’s eyes shot open and his head turned to the closed door. 

“Paul!” 

Then more screaming and hooting. 

“Paul!”

“What the bloody Christ!” He unceremoniously jerked his cock out of Erik’s mouth with a hard shove, hard enough to push the man backwards onto the floor. After a quick zip and adjustment, John marched out into the club and saw him. John’s jaw dropped comically in amazement, a look of complete shock that was gradually softened with a lusty sneer.

Paul has stripped off his t-shirt by this point, naked from the waist up, and his hip rotations were spinning faster. Every so often he turned, wiggle his arse, and then shimmy back around, eyes half-closed, lips parted. He picked up the still half-full glass of whiskey resting on the table and poured a stream down the center of his chest. His right hand grabbed his balls through the black leather, squeezing and cupping and rubbing his package.

“He’s a performer, this one!” Screamed some German geezer into John’s right ear, as Lennon shook his head in dumbstruck awe. Then, without warning, Paul lost his balance for a moment. He recovered well, but John suddenly realized how fucking pissed his mate had gotten himself. Beautiful shit was still turning him on like mad though; John’s hard on pressed agonizingly against his light trouser fabric, as he started to slide his way through the crowd towards the table.

Then Paul snorted with delight and pulled a stunt he’d seen a stripper bird do last year. Holding his near empty glass between his lips, his stuck both forefingers in the remaining booze and wet them. In tauntingly slow circular strokes, he caressed both his nipples as he quickly tossed his head back and drank the last swallow. The bar patrons caught their collective breath and nearly ejaculated in cheers.

“That’s enough of that, Macca!” John barked under his breath, suddenly determined to get his best mate off that table and outta that fucking place before the lad went too far. Before Paul made a complete fool of himself. Shit, before John had to pull a pile of humping poofters off Macca’s teasing, gyrating bum. John’s gentle shoving through the mass of customers turned into desperate pushing, like a drowning man trying to swim upstream.

“Get down here, McCartney, ya fucker!”

Paul smirked as his looked down seductively into those piercing Lennon eyes, mouthing “Hi Johnny,” to his furious, sweating, panting friend. John smiled back wickedly, bending his finger to signal to his mate that he wanted to tell him something. When Paul bent down, John grabbed him by his hair and pulled him off the stage. A gasp of surprise and disappointment spread like a wave through the club.

“Let the fuck go of me, Lennon!” Half naked and bladdered beyond recovery, or so it seemed, Paul snarled and squirmed, fighting to get out of John’s firm, painful grasp.

And then John knocked him out cold with one quick punch to the jaw. Not all that hard, considering Paul was near unconscious as it was. John grabbed him before he could fall, both arms firmly around Paul’s waist, and lifted the limp, pickled Scouse stripper up over his left shoulder.

“Still got that spare room upstairs, Mickey?” John roared through the hushed space. Mickey nodded and laughed until his face turned an even deeper shade of crimson. Daft, randy English lads, he muttered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long finale to this dark little tale of leather and lust. Mention of non-con in this bit. 
> 
> **This is a work of fiction.**

Paul slowly opened his left eye, his head pounding from the after effects of too much beer and whiskey. He could tell that there was a lamp on in the unfamiliar room, but had no idea where the dim light was coming from. And he could smell fresh cigarette smoke and a muskiness that hung in the air of the strange space. He racked his pounding brain trying to remember what had happened, but could only vaguely recall shouting and music and dancing. 

His skull felt as heavy as concrete; he couldn’t lift it off the vile stench of the pillow cradling his head. His jaw was fucking sore and his limbs seemed numb and useless as he rested there, on his stomach, his nineteen-year old body battered from a long night of alcohol abuse. As a frigid chill ran up his spine, he tried to shift his weight slightly on the lumpy mattress, only to feel a wince of some bizarre sensation aching deep up his arse. With concentration and effort, he lifted his head and turned to face the other direction, his cheek immediately sinking back down into the squishy, stinking pillow. And then he saw him.

Seated in a wooden chair by the lone window, curtains only partially opened to reveal the darkness outside, John sat quietly, smoking a fag and staring silently at the reflection of the spare room cast back by the window glass.

“John? John… where are we?” Paul whispered, his weak voice raw and scratchy. Without hurry, John turned to face him, pulling his heavy, black frames down the beak of his nose. Dressed only in his white undershirt and Y-fronts, the rest of his discarded clothes were still out of sight in a pile by the bed.

“Yer awake then? I was worried ya were gonna die on me, Macca.”

“Shit, I sort of wish I did. I feel like I’ve been run over by a fuckin’ lorry. Where are we?”

“In a room upstairs above the club. In Hamburg… the queer bar you weren’t supposed to know about… remember?”

“Oh… “ Paul couldn’t bring himself to talk for a bit, the twinge of throbbing in his bum distracting his thoughts and muting his confused mind. Then, as the reality of the pulsing tenderness in his arse sunk into his aching brain, his brow furrowed and his lips twisted in anger.

“Shit, did ya bugger me, John?” Paul bitterly spat the words out.

“Yes.” No emotion, just a calm, steady but broken ghost of a voice.

Still frozen face down on the bed, a tear spilled out of Paul’s eye, rolling down the side of his nose.

“Christ, John! How the fuck could ya?”

“Listen… ya said I could! I heard ya, loud and clear.” John took another slow drag off his cigarette and exhaled softly. 

“Paul, we were messin’ about on that very bed… after I carried yer pickled bum off yer striptease table down at the bar before ya got yerself gang raped.”

“What? Bullocks!” Paul tried to shout, but it came out more as a pathetic whimper.

“Ya don’t remember any of it?” John swallowed… and then continued. “Well, we were tongue fuck… kissin’… and tossing each other off, Paul. I knew ya had gifted hands, luv… but ‘ell, ya’ve got a fuckin’ talented mouth, darling.” John’s weak chuckle was flavored with regret and heartache.

“I did ask ya first, Paul… and ya moaned something that sounded a bloody lot like ‘please, fuck me, Johnny’!”

“I was bladdered, John… out of me mind with drink! I didn’t know what I was sayin’, ya bastard!” Paul’s raging shame was bubbling, boiling over in his gut. How dare John stick his prick up his arse when he was shit pissed, nearly blacked out and all!

“Yeah, I knew ya were hammered, mate. That’s why I didn’t really fuck ya… not they way I wanted to, even though ya begged me to bugger ya.”

“Huh? What’s that fuckin’ mean?” 

“I just fingered yer gorgeous back door a bit… that s’all. Sorry… yer arse is irresistible. Got a couple of pleasant whimpers out of ya, Paul.”

“Fuckin’ hell, Lennon.” With a grunt, Paul slowly rolled over and sat up, only to discover he was stripped bare except for his soiled, black socks. He grabbed the bed covers and wrapped them self-consciously around his naked, lower body.

“Listen, Paul… I realized right away that ya were a virgin. So I stopped, all right. Not the best way to give up yer bum-hole cherry, pissed out of yer mind and all...” John tried in vain to lighten the dark mood with a smirk and a wink.

“Yer a fuckin’ wanker!” Paul coughed painfully and, without thinking, looked around for a pack of smokes.

“Hmm… that’s what I bloody wound up doing, as a matter of fact. Shitty night all round, Macca.” John turned away, back to gazing at the reflection, tired and shattered.

“Cor, me head hurts.” Trying in vain to relieve the hangover pressure, Paul rubbed his scalp gently, ruffling up his hair.

“Mickey left some bottles of Coke and headache powders. They’re on the side table there next to ya, luv. Might help a bit.”

Paul reached over and grabbed both packets, pouring them greedily into his parched mouth, washing down the medicine with a huge gulp of fizzy sugar. He burped, closed his heavy eyes and leaned his head back carefully against the wall behind the bed with a heavy sigh.

“So what do we now, John?”

“What do ya mean? We forget about it, that’s what we do. Never happened. You go back to your skirt whoring ways… and I go back to being the fucked up deviant that I’ve always been. And I’ll leave ya alone, all right.” John got out of the chair, picked up the lump of clothes off the floor and tossed them in frustration at his younger friend. “Get dressed. We gotta get the hell outta here before the taffy geezer charges me for using the room.”

Paul kept his watering eyes closed, biting his bottom lip with regret. And disappointment and anger… the night hadn’t turned out like he planned at all. Not at all like he’d fantasized it would be. And he couldn’t even remember the good parts, the snogging and touching. He couldn’t even recall how John’s body felt… or how his lips tasted.

John remembered everything… every teasing stroke and soft kiss and hungry tongue fuck. As he watched McCartney’s slim torso rise and fall with his rapid breathing, partially wrapped up in the sheets, he remembered the intense sensations of Paul’s perfect body and round bum squirming in peckish passion underneath him. When Paul eventually passed out cold, as expected, John just spooned and snuggled him, drinking in the scent of his fantasy lover… after a brief and gentle playtime with the lad’s delightful pucker.

Now they were here, in the uncomfortable aftermath of it all. Quickly, silently they dressed back into their leather gear, not daring to look at each other. John opened the door and peeked out into the dark hallway, hoping like hell to avoid the ornery Welshman. He didn’t have any spare marks to waste on a right shitty night of nearly nothing… a drunken failure of a tryst that probably destroyed them, whatever he and McCartney were. Or had been.

Hopeful that the coast was clear, he gestured for Paul to go first, holding the door for his partner, sporting a goofy but sad grin. Paul got halfway out of the door when he stopped, his fists clenched uncontrollably as his painful rage and his pride suddenly overpowered his sorrow. Before his bandleader had any chance in hell to defend himself, Paul’s left fist connected hard with John’s face.

“Don’t ever fucking do that to me again, ever!” Tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, Paul mumbled curses as he pushed past the bewildered Welsh barkeep who appeared out of nowhere in the hallway. John staggered out after his mate, only to run headlong into the old codger.

“Rough night then, darling?” His face sour and harsh, Mickey held out his palm for payment.

“There were a few sweet moments. For me, anyroad.” John shrugged and chuckled with despair, his eyes filled to the brim behind his glasses, his trembling right hand rubbing his aching jaw. “I’ll pay ya for the room in a couple of days, Mickey. We get our wages at the end of the week, all right?” John lifted off his glasses, just high enough to wipe off his eyes with the back of his other hand.

“Shit… sod it, John. And forget that baby Bambi boy too, son. Take it from an old, weathered poof… the prettiest ones always break yer heart. Come back for a drink when ya can. There’s plenty of fit, decent lads that’d cherish yer gorgeous company.” Mickey winked, and then patted John affectionately on the shoulder and walked away. He’d always had a soft spot for the auburn-haired Scouse musician.

~~~

They didn’t look at each other or speak much at all for close to a fortnight. The band went on playing their scheduled gigs at the Star Club, rocking through the raucous sets as if nothing had changed. But everything had. Off stage, Paul and John went their separate ways without so much as a nod, distance seeming the only possible salve for their self-inflicted wounds. The atmosphere was brutally tense; everyone noticed. Paul and John weren’t talking and no one knew what the fuck to do about it, not even George. 

“You and John must ‘ave had a nasty scrap then?” The young guitarist blurted out in frustration one night after another exhausting show.

“Just stay out of it, Geo.” Paul practically growled, clenching his long fingers around a pint he’d been nursing for nearly an hour.

“Oi, spare me the sordid details of yer barney, mate! But, um… who fucked up first?”

“Dunno. Me, probably.” Paul inhaled a small sip and sighed. “Yeah… it was me. I got bladdered a while back and I acted like a fuckin’ fool. I cocked everything up, Geo.”

“Well, then ya should try to patch things up first as well, Paul.”

“Yeah, s’ppose.” Paul took a long, time-wasting drag. “Don’t know how, though.”

“Ya pissed now?” George bent his head lower, trying to look up into Paul’s downturned eyes, as Paul snarled.

“No, I’m not pissed.” 

“John’s sitting right over there, Paul. Alone. Go bloody talk to him! Couldn’t make things any worse, ya nit.” George smirked, nodding his head towards the far corner of the club. He exhaled with relief when Paul finally grabbed his stale beer and made his way over to Lennon’s table.

“Alright, John.”

“Paul.” Though his heart skipped a couple of beats, John didn’t lift his eyes from his furious writing… another long, babbling letter to Cyn, filled with loving words he wished he could share instead with someone else.

“Listen, mate… I just came over to apologize.”

“For what, Macca?” Still, John wouldn’t share precious eye contact.

“For… shit, for making a daft fool outta meself at that bar. Wasn’t what I was planning on doing that night. Can ya forgive yer fuckin’ twat of a bandmate?” Paul cleared his throat, took another sip, and looked down at his boots. “Anyroad, I’m sorry.”

“Christ, Macca. You’ve nothing to apologize for! I’m the bloody perv who stuck his fingers up his best mate’s pissed arse, luv.” John chuckled quietly with noticeable strain, his gaze purposefully fixed on the scribbled paper, his hand shaking slightly. “Hell, and ya didn’t chuck up in me mouth when we were… together. Ta for that, ya know. Now bugger off, I’m writing brilliant nuggets of rubbish.”

Paul smiled weakly and started to turn to walk away, muttering something under his breath.

“Paul?”

“Hmm?” Whipping back around, Paul fell heart first into John’s piercing, brown eyes.

“Why did ya show up there?”

“I was following ya, John.”

“And what was yer plan then? The other one… the one where ya didn’t strip in front of a gaggle of randy poofters on a bar table?” John leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression more relaxed and tickled with curiosity.

“Ha! Me original, brill plan?” Paul sucked too long on a finger, and then continued. “How ‘bout… what if I show ya?”

“What?”

“Let’s go back there… lemme give it another try.”

“Paul, luv… yer not queer.”

“And neither are you, right?” Paul raised his brows with a naughty sparkle of a smile. He’d get what he fucking wanted this time, if he played his cards right. Less numbing booze, more McCartney seduction. He’d fucking remember everything this time.

~~~~

The next night, they walked into the anonymous club together, Paul parading in his black turtleneck jumper, jeans and unzipped leather jacket. Halfway across the floor, as they were making their way to the bar, he leaned back into his companion’s chest and, with an assured smile, possessively ran his hand down John’s arm and grabbed John by the hand, intertwining their fingers tightly. Pleasantly startled, John gulped and he looked away with a smirk; Stu had never held his bloody hand. Stu hadn’t done a fuckload of sweet boyfriend things in that queer bar, or any fucking where else.

Tugging his best mate towards the back of the club, Paul crooned, “Let’s get pints.” Two beers were waiting for them, freshly topped off on the counter. Smirking, Mickey shook his nearly bald head; he couldn’t blame the Lennon lad for trying his luck again with the striking ebony-haired rascal, could he? After a several minutes of playful snickers and banter at the bar, Paul stopped babbling… and kissed John tenderly on the mouth, for a fucking long, delicious time, in front of every envious poof in the place, before he pulled back. The dumbstruck expression on John’s delighted face was priceless, but Paul wasn’t finished, not by a long shot. 

“Wanna dance? Good tune, this one.”

“Yer fuckin’ with me, right?”

“No, I’m not. You like to dance. I like to dance. Let’s be proper boyfriends. C’mon, Johnny.”

Stu had never bloody wanted to dance, ever… even after John once had gotten well pissed enough to foolishly ask Stu to dance.

The music was slow and bluesy; John didn’t recognize it but Paul easily hummed along with the tune into his partner’s ear, like a hypnotizing siren. They embraced, somewhat awkwardly at first, soon naturally sinking into and moving in harmony with each other’s bodies. 

“So, Macca… was this yer plan?”

Paul pushed back just inches from John’s face and chuckled, his mouth scrunched up in desire. “It’s a good start.”

John jerked him in tighter, growling in his ear.

“What do ya want, Paul? Tell me what the fuck ya really want.”

Paul sighed for forever, and then murmured just below John’s left ear.

“This… us. When we can have it.”

Nuzzling his nose into John’s soft sideboard hair, Paul kissed his ear shell before whispering again.

“And I want… my prick in that gorgeous mouth of yers, Johnny.” 

Not quite believing what he’d heard, John shoved him back gently by the shoulders, one eyebrow cocked in joy and mischief.

“So that’s what ya want… that’s yer naughty wish, hmm? Are ya absolutely sure, baby?”

“Completely sure. And not even at all bladdered.” Paul winked and smiled, completely lost in the moment, his thighs shaking with anticipation.

“Ya never stop amazin’ me, Paul.” John grabbed Paul firmly by the hand and started to lead him towards the back staircase that went up to the second floor. “And yer not gonna fuckin’ clock me in the face afterwards this time, right?”

“Scout’s honor. But, upstairs again? I thought we’d just go off to the loo. Bog’s free, yeah?”

“This special plan of yers deserves the private fuck room, Macca. Don’t ya think? S’ides, I’ve got an idea or two as well. Well? C’mon then.”

 

Paul sat on the edge of the mattress, fully clothed, as John kicked off his shoes and slowly unfastened his own shirt, one button at a time, in front of him. John’s famished eyes were on fire; Paul could easily see the prominent bulge straining against the fabric of his partner’s dark wool trousers. After he undid his belt, John pulled the leather strap through the trouser fobs and tossed in on the floor, on top of his crumpled white dress shirt, and crawled over and onto Paul, pushing him back onto the bed.

“So, how do you want it, beautiful? Lying down, sitting… what’s yer fantasy blowjob from ol’ Jock, eh?”

As John sucked softly on his neck, Paul moaned, struggling to answer him, his thoughts stuck in the back of his throat. Finally, he mumbled.

“Standing up… against a wall.” 

John pulled back and grinned.

“You are a naughty bugger, aren’t ya?” John ran his hand over Paul’s hot, swollen crotch, eliciting the dirtiest of whimpers. “Think ya can stand up the whole time?”

“Yes.” 

“Rubbish. Not the way I’m gonna suck you off, darling. But hell, we can start that way, until ya buckle and fall over.” John pulled him up off the bed and shoved him back against the nearest wall, dropping almost immediately to his knees. “Now open those gorgeous eyes of yers and watch me, luv.”

Paul fought to lift his heavy lids and looked down, both his damp palms pressed against the wall for support. He wanted to see and remember every intoxicating moment of this forbidden vision. His breath caught sharply in his lungs when John unzipped his jeans and pulled him out; he gasped at the sensation of warm, rhythmic puffs of air dancing along his length. John had never sucked a cut lad before; though he’d seen McCartney starkers a few times already, John was strangely mesmerized by the extra-smooth, silky skin of Paul’s stiff, circumcised prick. He licked and kissed up and down every inch, teasing and waiting patiently for the lad to plead for more.

After a few garbled groans, Paul finally managed to beg with a bit more coherency. “Shit, please… fuck, please! Johnny…”

Smirking wickedly, John snarled, and then wrapped his lips around Paul’s swollen head; as he took him expertly down his throat, he pushed Paul up by his hips hard against the wall, cupping his fingers through the denim fabric to grab hold of Paul’s hipbones, to keep the boy in place as long as Paul’s legs could hold out. John knew it wouldn’t be long before Paul collapsed, so he was ready when it finally happened; he carried the lad like a new bride to the bed, set him down on the mattress still fully dressed and resumed his talented mouthing, slurping noisily the way all lads like it. When Paul finally exploded minutes later in waves of ecstasy, crying out in a scream, John swallowed every delicious drop and then carefully, gently licked his softening, perfect prick clean. 

John crawled up Paul’s torso and grabbed his whimpering treasure of a face; they kissed, tongues swirling about, the salty taste of Paul’s shot spicing up the deep snogging, as Paul continued to moan and mewl. They lay there for a while, entangled in each other arms and legs, while Paul slowly recovered.

“Bloody hell… yer incredible, John. That was fuckin’ brilliant.”

“Best ya ever had, Macca?” 

“Best… hands down, the best.”

“Yeah? Good enough to give up yer virginity to me, for real?”

“Fuckin’ yes. Please… please fuck me. Shit, I’ve been waitin’ so long, John.”

“Roll over for me, darling.”

John pulled Paul’s jeans and undershorts down around his hips, over the curve of his bum and off those long hairy legs. He didn’t bother removing the jacket or jumper; he wanted to see and feel Paul sweat buckets from the heat, sweat like he always did under the lights on stage. As he unzipped his own trousers and pulled himself out, his knees forced Paul’s thighs apart wide. There was a gasp and then a submissive moan. And John was in no fucking hurry. He’d waited for this moment… dreamt about it, wrote about it, fucking drew pictures of it on paper and in his mind, for bloody years. He planned on savoring every second, every delicious thrust.

But first, it was time to worship the arse, that perfect Macca arse. He kissed and nibbled and kneaded Paul’s firm cheeks, leaving small love bruises here and there, rubbing his calloused thumb pads in teasing circles over the lad’s tight bum hole until Paul nearly drowned in needy tears.

“First just me fingers… to get ya ready. OK?”

After Paul nodded with a muffled noise, face down on the covers, John rose to his knees and smeared several drops of slippery lube over two strong fingers and slowly, very slowly, penetrated him. Paul involuntarily clamped down tight around his thick fingers, but John continued moving in deep, finally finding the squishy bulge of his partner’s prostate. John’s firm fingertip caresses were slow and steady as they twisted and turned, causing Paul to arch his back and lift his hips, trying to adjust his body to get more.

“How does that feel, baby?”

“Fuck yeah. Mmm… feels great. Shit, John…”

After several more minutes of foreplay fingering, John growled even lower. 

“Are ya ready for more? For me, Paul?”

“Shit, yes.”

“Ya sure?”

For fuck’s… sake John! Yes! Fuck me, ya… sexy fucker!” Paul slurred the desperate string of profanities in between begging moans, as he arse wriggled and rose up higher with each squirm. John grabbed the small tube of lube again, and greased himself up, ready for bum hole heaven. In one slow, steady plunge, John took him, until he was sure he’d reached that sweet spot again.

“Yer all right, luv?” He whispered, terrified of an answer.

Paul finally caught his breath and coughed, “Yes.”

“Ya sure?”

“For shit’s sake!”

“Mmm… right.” John started out slowly, but quickly lost control to his cock and his hips. As he thrust deeper and harder, he felt Paul climbing with him underneath his body He pulled out, without warning, in one quick jerk.

“Roll over… on yer back, baby.” He demanded, in the silkiest of sexy tones.

“What? Huh?” Paul was long out of the room, floating off in another universe.

“On yer back, luv. Roll over so I can have ya that way. Bloody hell, Macca!” John rolled him over with one strong, comical push, and then suffocated his full mouth with thunderous kisses. The older lad soon rolled back on his heels again, lifting Paul’s legs, hoisting them high over his broad shoulders, spreading the boy’s cheeks open with his demanding hands. It was another steady, continuous, breath-taking thrust, to the secret, unexplored depths of nineteen-year old James Paul. The more John pounded, the closer they got to the edge of the mattress. A thrust or five later, Paul’s floppy head was hanging upside down over the side of the bed, his eyes shut tight, legs high up in the air, fingers clenching the sheets in a sorry attempt not to fall off. 

And then John fell, into delicious oblivion... fell into Paul, completely.

The band went on playing their scheduled gigs at the Star Club for a few more weeks, rocking through the raucous sets as if nothing had changed. 

But everything had.


End file.
